Ruination
by Orin Drake
Summary: Demyx, alone So what really goes on in the Nocturne's mind..?


"Ruination" and the overall concept of "Ruination" is copyright Orin Drake, 2007. All characters and a good deal of the terminology belongs entirely to Square-Enix and Disney, and probably always will. Ah well.

Background: "Demyx/Demyx, gummi ship" is actually an old prompt. But, spurred on by a reviewer who said I've ruined Demyx's character (and _KHII:FM+_), I thought I'd "ruin" him some more. I do love my psychotic musician muse. The song at the end is from "User Friendly" by Marilyn Manson. That should tell you something.

Ruination  
by Orin Drake

Demyx was good at scouting missions. In fact, they were pretty much the only things he was capable of accomplishing. And, every so often, he found something really interesting. Of course, also every so often, that just happened to coincide with moments when he desperately needed to... relieve some stress.

It was a sheer act of luck that the musician should come across an abandoned gummi ship when he most needed one. It was parked outside of an inn on some backwards world--and, upon glancing into one of the inn's few windows, he discovered an even more miraculous sight as he focused on the sleeping forms: he'd managed to find the _Keyblade Master's_ gummi ship. Oh, that was... incredible. What luck! And what reward! But... but first... he really needed to take care of something. Not to mention reward himself for a job well-done. (And he could just picture Axel snickering at that idea.)

Slipping into the ship itself was no problem. It was night, there was no one around, and Sora was soundly sleeping. Demyx just wanted to... borrow the privacy for a little bit.

Once inside, the coat was unzipped and off as quickly as possible. No thought given to anything except the task at hand. How to do it this time, though... Well. Why settle for one or two fantasies when he could have all of them? There was time. Counting down, then. Sure. Seemed like a pretty good idea for getting off.

Roxas... that boy was so cold. So adorably _cute_, sometimes, but in a "look at me and I'll kick your ass" kind of way. Demyx kinda liked him and kinda didn't want to be around him all at once--but the fact remained that he was more able to think of music the more he was around XIII. Whether it was remembered or somehow inspired, he wasn't sure; the specifics of the symphonies faded away, but at least he was left with a melody. If the water mage ever managed to get Roxas alone and all to himself, though... he'd have wanted the kid to scream. To kick and fight and snarl those sharp insults in a cracking voice. Pound the body raw and watch him break like the young thing he was. Never enough to get his light to fade, but enough to flicker. That image right there was almost enough to get him off, to throw him over until he thought of--

Larxene. ...Well, that did it. ...Although... well, he was thrown off by her to put it lightly. Her violence was right up front, where his was underneath. If only he could... get close enough to her. She clearly didn't see him as any threat; if only he might be able to close in unsuspected, get in a position to pin her arms together so she couldn't cut him, wouldn't dare use electricity when his element was water. Get her _helpless_ and full of rage--ha. She'd see just how much she was capable of feeling then, wouldn't she? Poor little girl. Trapped in a corner with the one Nobody she'd thought she'd never have to worry about. She loved reading her deSade... but what about living it? What about being that poor little victim? He'd even take his gloves off to touch her--even her nonexistent body must have that female softness he remembered from so long ago. So pretty and fragile and would crack so deeply without breaking, the screams slightly different than a man's. Maybe there'd be begging. Maybe yelling and threats and then pleading to stop. It'd been far too long since he'd heard that...

Oh, but why dwell when there were so many more possibilities. Something just a touch more masculine, perhaps, like... Marluxia. Oh, he was pretty. A perfect blend of male and female with a truly devious mind and a hunger for power. Could have made an awesome rock star. Demyx chuckled at the idea of XI in leather pants and shimmering eyeshadow--then moaned. Marluxia was vicious, and certainly not one to be dominated--but in his fantasies, the musician would do just that. Backstage, after a show. After Marluxia had just sung his heart out (ha ha) and was too weak to resist, Demyx would pull him into their cheap little green room and lock the door, pinning him against it. Yes. _Yes_. Those tight leather pants would be hell to get off, but they'd manage. Then Marluxia's dominant side would show with blind kicks and punches--but a little fight was always a delicious thing. Demyx would use an electric guitar cable to bind Marly's wrists and legs... then show him a microphone in threat. Either way, continued fight or surrender, there would be a bit of screaming. A bit of punishment... and awesome reward.

To X, then. Luxord was polite, refined, relaxed... and almost unbearably cocky. He _knew_ that he _was_ damn good, though. Demyx's approach would almost have to be one of equality; soft lips and gentle touches, asking and granting. He was sure he could coax the raw, lustful animal out of the gambler, making him beg for more and allowing them an almost level playing field. Maybe there would be a playful struggle; X seemed like the type who might indulge him. Slow and soft in a savage kind of way, and likely several times in a row, back and forth, before they grew tired of each other. That was kind of nice, occasionally. Though, if Demyx grew bored... well, he imagined the odds weren't necessarily in his favor to rip the man apart. But a little damage to that suave exterior may well be worth the severe paper cuts.

Axel... Well, he was... Axel. Rude and vicious and liked to play tricks. But Demyx could more than reciprocate, depending on the day. To catch Axel by surprise wasn't at all hard when he was trying to convince himself that he didn't care--to pin him against an alley wall somewhere while water clones tore both of their clothes off... ah, the heat of Axel's fire would drive them both to doing things they may not normally do. Demyx would never have let the fire mage have _him_, though. It would do VIII well to understand that water could douse his flames--could make him beg for the cool wash of the essence of life over his searing, consuming flames. Demyx would force himself to have the patience to build Axel to such a desperate peak as to _ask_ for release. And Axel begging... oh, Axel begging...

There was only one thing that could possibly be better than that. _Saix_ begging--but begging for pain. Demyx would like nothing more than to hear Xemnas' _dog_ beg for punishment, for some kind of absolution. The Diviner's release be damned--Demyx would beat the mongrel until _he_ came. All of his emptiness, all of his violence--only Saix would have been able to take it, internalize it, hunger for more. Such a calm, polite, subservient man, so it would seem... but the light of their Kingdom Hearts drove him to things even the darkest of sinners wouldn't dare dream. Blood and blood and whimpering and broken bones and that black that should be crimson running down, rolling down, joining the shadows in the pavement as the Shadows looked on--and the Diviner begging for more even as he snarled, even as he cried out...

Demyx needed to slow down, to take a breath and open his eyes and remind himself to take his time. The best was yet to come. And, knowing Roxas' sleeping habits, Sora was unlikely to wake up anytime soon.

Zexion... honestly, Demyx had always wondered. If VI's power was illusion, then did that mean he could... shift into anything he wanted? Not that the boy wasn't exceptionally attractive on his own merit, but could Zexion effectively be anything and anyone he so desired, fulfilling his own and everyone else's fantasy? Could he switch forms, genders, preferences at whim? Would he _taste_ different from form to form? Would Zexion ever be able to bleed real blood? Or perhaps just to make it look real would be enough. To _feel_ real, smooth and sticky and warm... the coppery life-death smell that only blood had, the tingle in the sinuses when the air is full of it... Zexion could give him everything he wanted if only he saw reason to. That was often the problem with the boy.

And then there was Lexaeus. By sheer bulk alone, Demyx doubted he could manage to dominate him... but, for all his size and power, the man was oddly gentle. A deadly fighter, of course, but when not fighting... he was almost pleasant to be around. Quiet not because he didn't want to speak, but because he saved his words for when he really had something to say. Talkative as the Nocturne was, he really respected that kind of thing. Perhaps he would offer himself to the Silent Hero, let the man delicately use his body and show him gentle things he'd never even considered. It was that calm, quiet, knowing and careful silence that Demyx felt so very drawn to--perhaps an emptiness he could fill with music. And perhaps, just perhaps... the musician could repay Lexaeus showing him tenderness by demonstrating the finer points of pain and hatred without a heart in return.

He knew so very little about Vexen. They simply hadn't crossed paths much, but when they had... the Nocturne did not particularly care for the scientist's bedside manner. Cold, silent, rough and distant--hearts or no, that was simply... uncalled for. He wondered how IV would have taken to a slow, sensual crawl across a pristine lab table, full of hunger and sex and _want_... Oh to tempt the man, to try and remind him of the kinds of warmth and desire that perhaps even life had not granted him... but he wanted it. They all _wanted_ it. It took nothing to remind a Nobody of what they sought as a Somebody... and Demyx was so certain that all he had to do was crawl. Display his lean body, his eagerness to please, getting closer and closer until the curve of his lips could be felt against the thin-pressed line of the scientists'--and then remind him of why he had a shield. Vexen did not like violence. He did not like closeness. The musician would give him both in equal measure. He was quite interested to learn the effects of such an experiment.

And then there was III. Notoriously distant. Perhaps he'd allow Xaldin to dominate him... for a while. He was certain the quiet, subtle man had... _ways_. And extensive knowledge of how to keep a "slave" just as entertained as himself, the master. Yes... maybe Demyx would take to using the name Master if only III would teach him all of his tricks. He would hold himself off, obey any order--he would even _beg_ only to discover all the secrets the man had to give. It would be an honor to turn the tricks back on him, to just once hear Xaldin beg. Ah, the thought of one, tiny plea from that cruelly smirking mouth...

On the topic of smirking, there was a certain sharpshooter who was far too well-versed in the art. Demyx knew that a lot of people--and Nobodies, for that matter--wouldn't care for the man because of his scars. But to the Nocturne... those were impossibly intriguing. It just meant Xigbar was capable of going so much further than the others. He'd already been hurt so many times... what was a little more? Losing a bit more blood would hardly matter. Not to mention, Demyx was pretty sure the Freeshooter would enjoy the kind of violence he wanted to inflict. Oh yeah. He'd let the Xigbar top him, if he wanted--so long as Demyx got the chance to re-open some of those old scars. And a good hard fuck on the ceiling? Perfect. He'd let the sniper think he had control, riding slow and steady before hands wrapped around the scarred neck and he rode harder.

And then... there was only one more to go. But he couldn't possibly venture there... could he? But... this was his fantasy, right?

Sure it was. All his.

"Xemnas..." he moaned, in his mind's eye seeing the Superior laid out before him, panting and wanting and ready to be fucked. The man already broken, mentally and emotionally--the blind man leading his blind followers into the Darkness. _Ha_. It was to fucking _laugh_.

And he _would_ laugh, he was sure of it. Not out of cruelty, but... maybe a little triumph. Oh, alright, maybe a little cruelty, as well. Xemnas sent him on all of the crappy missions.

"Beg for it..." he whispered, picturing himself _demanding_ it of Xemnas.

And the man obeyed, in Demyx's mind. That perfectly controlled voice pleaded like a filthy groupie _whore_ for his cock. "Please" and "please" and "fuck me" and "now". When the sheer desperation in that voice reached its own kind of climax, he'd grant those wishes.

Dry and harsh and brutal and no preparation. Nobody or not, his elder or not, Superior or not--Xemnas didn't fucking deserve it. Demyx stroked himself a little slower to keep the fantasy going, hand grasping tighter as he wondered how it would feel to drive himself into that likely unpracticed channel, hot and shuddering and trying to drive him out. He'd hammer in, over and over, over and over, leaving bleeding bruises on those perfectly tanned hips with his frenzy, clutching, tearing.

He wanted to hear the Superior whimper. Wanted to see the strain of agony and shattering pride on that impassive face before the smooth, deep voice cracked, pleading for mercy. Begging for an end to the dry, rough pain. Xemnas would look so good with blood running down his thighs. With red streaked in his hair from being grabbed and pulled by soiled gloves. A smear of blood on his lips, perhaps, from the musician's vicious and demanding teeth and tongue and mouth and a hatred he was certain he could feel.

Demyx lost himself in the fantasy, singing in gasping breaths as he pumped. "I'm not in love..." twisting, screaming, heaving... "But I'm gonna fuck you..." a cry from below... "'Til somebody better..." faster and harder and more severe, demanding... "Comes along..."

The fantasy ended in a flood of immense pleasure, the mental image of Xemnas bloody and broken and sobbing silently lingering like the oversensitized flush on Demyx's skin. "Mine." The musician would say, right before he pulled out and left.

"Mine..." he whispered again, muscles slack as the reality of the gummi ship around him finally bled in. It was way too comfy to move, though. He had time.

* * *

And this is why I do not RP Demyx. ...Okay, this is one of many reasons. But oh is he ever a tasty little psychopath. 


End file.
